Something More
by Nightwitch87
Summary: Olivia and Elliot reflect on the changes that have taken place in their lives. 2011 and 2014. (i.e. I totally thought this was complete but just had a new idea.)
1. Long Nights

Author's Note: I wrote this in 2012 and only just realized I never posted it, so this may start out from that point in the fictitious timeline.

Disclaimer: I have not in any way contributed to the Law and Order: SVU franchise, don't own any of the original storyline or characters, and I am merely posting this for entertainment purposes with no financial gain. I wrote this myself and have not plagiarised someone else's work.

**_Something More_**

_Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud. _His soles hit the asphalt with such regularity he barely notices it. They are worn down with hardly any profile left. Still, these are his shoes, this is his route, and the familiar sound cuts sharply through the silence. The aches in his body, too, are so well-known that they are barely conscious. He is running, the humid air around him keeping him awake. The roads are deserted, and it's bliss to him to just be out here on his own in the night, making use of his body.

"See you later" Kathy had called when she had seen him grab his grey sweatshirt, as every night. Just that. And it's good to be out here, running, because if he were at home now, he would feel as if he had to be doing something. Dishes, for example, which he does more often now. Laundry. And yet he finds that when he does the laundry, it throws Kathy off, because she had planned to do a different load first, because it isn't the right time to do it, because Kathy has been doing it for twenty-something years and he messes up her routine. But he should be doing something, like fixing stuff, making sure Eli gets to bed on time. So he runs, because he will stay in shape come what may, ready and alert.

* * *

_Chop. Chop. Chop._ Ginger is easy to cut. Far easier than that orange cannon ball, anyway. Hokkaido pumpkin is the simplest, the guy from the organic vegetable market has told her, because of the edible peel. Simple? She has tried everything from a steak to a bread knife, and has settled on a smooth one with a large blade. The two halves of pumpkin lie in front of her largely untouched, after a forceful attempt to divide one of them into wedges ended with a knife slip and near miss of her finger. Pumpkins aren't even in season. And so she is standing here, with two deseeded yet wood hard pieces of pumpkin. She couldn't eat that much if she tried. She will probably end up giving most of it to her neighbor.

She could have invited Mrs Wood over for dinner, but she knows that the elderly woman doesn't like to leave her apartment. She could have phoned Karen or someone else, but she barely keeps in touch with these people, and Alex had other plans this evening. In any case, she's not sure that she feels like company tonight. It's an evening for comfy clothes, sitting on the sofa, having a glass of wine. And cooking, apparently. Caramelised Hokkaido pumpkin, of all things.

* * *

Streetlamps punctuate his progress with fields of cold light. The thing is, he needs a job. This doing nothing, being useless, just won't do. He needs to get up for a purpose and achieve something. Nothing to do with the police. The thought alone of working somewhere outside special victims grips him uncomfortably. It's too late for him to change, and in any case, he just can't do it anymore. Of course, he couldn't simply return to another department even if he wanted to, not with the IAB investigation and everything that's happened, the press coverage. He has made his choice, and it is a complete one, no partial trade-off. He knew it was the right one the second he walked out after that uncomfortable talk with Cragen. Where Cragen didn't tell him to stay. Once he had driven away, once the building was out of sight and he wasn't tempted to glance back, the heaviness of decades had seemed to lift. He had known he wasn't going to look back. _Look Back in Anger_, hadn't that been the name of some awful play Lizzie had dragged him to see?

It had been the right decision, all of it. But now, his first instinct when he wakes up is to glance at his alarm clock, ready to grab his belongings and go in an instant, to screen his surroundings, to check that his phone isn't ringing and there hasn't been a case. It takes him a moment to remember, in those seconds between sleep and reality, that he doesn't have to be on edge. This should be a relief, but he can't deny that more often than not, he lies back disappointed, purposeless, sleepless. It is a relief when the time finally comes around for Kathy to stir and rise. She did it with a smile at first whenever she found him there. She smiles less often now.

* * *

She is cooking without an occasion, just to do something nice for herself. She actually enjoys cooking somewhat; it's just that she doesn't often feel up to it after a long day. So she has deliberately picked out something special today to make it worth the while. She cooks because she can. It's part of her new set of resolutions, which she won't leave for the new year because New Year's Eve and all that pomp doesn't mean much to her. A nice meal today, sorting out her bills and some exercise tomorrow on her day off. Drinks with an old acquaintance from the Academy in the evening, where, she is resolved, they will keep shop talk to a minimum.

She is already tempted to cancel her evening plans, but she probably shouldn't and, in any case, it might be nice. It will be nice once she gets past the effort of getting ready. She is moving on, or at least she is moving. Ryan is divorced, she heard, and she remembers vaguely that he sort of had a thing for her at one point. But this was a long time ago. Neither of them is who they used to be anymore. She might not even recognise him at first glance. He could be bald by now, for all she knows - not that it matters. That's why she doesn't think of this as a date. "Date" implies expectations, excitement, pleasing someone, exasperation, disappointment- she's past that point. This is just a casual meeting to exchange news, and who knows what else. She isn't hoping for deep conversations or romantic kisses. At most, she's hoping for an orgasm, but that would be too quick and she is unsure if she feels like getting that close to anyone. She hasn't for a while now. She doesn't find this sort of thing easy anymore, even if it's just physical. It's too intimate. If they just end up drinking and talking about the past, that's still company. It counts.

* * *

They need money, desperately. He is failing to provide it despite occasional work, some temporary jobs that never turn into anything solid. Kathy hardly says anything, tries to keep it away from him so far, but they both know it. She doesn't say that he's failing. She doesn't say "so what now, it's about time we figured that out". That's not Kathy. She asks him if he has seen anything interesting, spoken to any of his connections. When he declines, she suggests he phone up this person or that person, and the fine lines on her forehead show. She mentions, casually, who she has spoken to, how she might get into work again. Kathy accepts, silently, because she is used to being disappointed. She accepts until, one day out of the blue, it gets to be too much to put up with. He knows that whatever she must have imagined his retirement from the police to be like, this can't be it. Maybe it's just the adjustment, maybe he will get used to it. Maybe, when he has a new job, things will be different. They will have fewer worries. Then again, things are not bad. It's just that he feels as if he has returned from a long, long journey, which isn't a feeling he's used to having in his own home. He is back, and now what. Eli's face lights up. Eli is bursting with energy. Eli wants his dad to come play treasure hunters with him outside. He gets far more attention than his other children ever did, than they could have had. Everything is more conscious with him. These are the good moments. Eli, blond like Kathy, equals sun.

She arranges the wedges in a baking dish in neat rows, but they won't quite fit. There is a small gap in the middle, and they overlap at the narrow ends of the oval shape. She doesn't really mind. She has never understood all the fuss about arranging and serving food. What did it matter, as long as it tasted okay? She can think of better things to do with her limited free time. When she was a child, she secretly resented the kids in her class who had moms who cooked and went to bake sales, who arranged things and packed lunch boxes. But look at that, she thought, the picture of domesticity, apron and all. She understands it now. With Calvin, she had made a point of packing his lunch every day. He hadn't even known how to react to this at first. But children need to feel secure. People need security. Even on her own, there is a strange satisfaction in making something, physically starting to prepare something, seeing it progress, finishing it. It is a clear-cut process, largely risk-free if you disregarded the knife, with a visible outcome that pleases. The word "home making" springs to mind. It is in her power to make it.

* * *

Maureen is getting married. She told them at Christmas dinner. Kathy was all smiles and congratulations. He had been shocked. Jeff? Who is this Jeff? He hardly knows the young man, has barely registered an indistinct face with a mop of extensively long hair. Kathy assures him that Jeff has been around for dinner at their house plenty of times with their daughter, that he is a nice guy who always helps clear the table after, but Elliot, as usual, has missed most of these occasions. Scheduling time with his two oldest daughters hasn't been easy, although he has seen Kathleen more regularly than his oldest. And now Maureen is getting married, all of a sudden._"Why can't you be happy for me, Dad?" _Why not, Maureen? Because marriage is complicated. Because you should take time to really think this through. Because you are limiting yourself. Maureen, out of all his children, has always been the most ambitious and independent. Fantastic grades, scholarships, well-spoken, focused. That's Maureen. But what can he say? She's an adult, as Kathy reminds him, Kathy who Maureen comes after in appearance. She is independent. She is years older than they were. So all that remains is the hope that this Jeff isn't a bastard, and that they wait a little before having kids. He's not ready to be a grandfather. Eli is still so little, and yet he, too, is starting to slip away, picking out his own clothes, wanting to ride his bike outside. Elliot watches restlessly, and sometimes, he can't help thinking of all those parents whose children were snatched away in an instant, just like that. He catches himself at these thoughts. They are like glass shards of past damage which got stuck inside his brain.

* * *

Her mind wanders back to the Clarke case. They have been working on it for weeks now with little progress. Their chances of finding something at this point are dwindling with each day that passes. Every hour serves as an opportunity for evidence to get lost or be tampered with, for the perp to remove himself further, for memories to fade. In some ways, stranger rapes are easier because they don't tend to turn into a he said/she said battle. But with no DNA and no similar cases to go on, there is a wide pool of possible perpetrators and no starting point. The lack of leads and the general feeling that they are standing still on this case, along with legal issues in a couple of other ones, makes her work frustrating. It has also created some tension between her and Amaro because of minor disagreements, or maybe because they are simply tired of working on this to no effect.

She really doesn't want to be thinking about this case at home, but she knows Amaro probably is and it's getting to him far more than it should. Maybe it's because the victim is a single mother struggling to get by, but she can tell he is emotionally involved. Is that a bad thing? She's not exactly the right person to preach to him about setting boundaries, but she gets the impression that he almost wants her to. It's completely normal; after all, she _is_ more experienced. Amaro is a good cop who pulls his weight but still, she has no personal need to be anyone's "mentor". It makes for a strange partnership.

* * *

The secret is, it's not enough. It should be, but it isn't. All these years, he has missed so many things, often wishing that he could have more time to spend with Kathy and the kids. He has held a clear image of the family life he wants, the life that has been possible on their best days, with barbecues in the garden and a beer at the end of the day. Now it's here, now he can have it. Now he can forget the ugliness in this city, the perversions of human nature.

The years have inevitably changed him, but now, he can still make up for things. There is a window. He is pretty happy, or at least there is at least something to be happy about most days. Still, the hole in his life is there, and it's not just because he feels useless or because any change takes some getting used to. He has left something behind on uneasy terms, thrown it out rather than closing it neatly and tucking it away in a story album. He has left on bad terms.

* * *

She seasons the vegetables, careful not to overdo it on the ground cloves. The smell of garlic and allspice makes for a strange mixture, and she feels like she is trying to turn gingerbread into garlic bread. This can't be right, but the recipe was so particular about details such as how to "semi-crush" the garlic that it would be strange if it were an error. Well, at least her apartment will smell interesting even if the food might be a bit unusual. This is going to take so long to bake, too long, and the urge to just grab some bread and make a sandwich is hard to resist on an empty stomach. No lunch break at work today.

Is she being unreasonable about Amaro? She has tried very hard not to be, once it became clear that he's actually a pretty decent guy. She doesn't want to be one of these people with impossible standards, refusing to work with anyone just because he's…well, different. It wouldn't be fair. He's not Elliot, of course he isn't, and he shouldn't be. She has been telling herself that her hesitations about him are normal, that it just takes a bit of adjustment, that it's easy to become too set in your ways if you do the job for a long time. Knowing that it's "normal" hasn't been all that helpful though. But they have been making progress, haven't they, they have established their own routine. She has let it go. They're fine. He's a good partner.

* * *

_Bang. _He is torn out of his thoughts, halting in his tracks. It is only a split second before he realises it is not the familiar sound of shots he heard, but probably a firecracker. _Bang, bang. Both falling. Blood. Call a bus. _He can feel the hair on his forearms standing up. The appeal of firecrackers is beyond him, despite Kathleen's endless childhood fascination with fireworks. It's an innocent play with surprise and danger. He couldn't imagine anyone who had been with the Marines would find them entertaining, but he calms himself down, remembering the way his daughter's face would light up at the public displays.

As he turns the corner, he makes a decision and departs from his usual route, crossing the street towards the dark stone walls towering before him. The asphalt is sparkling in the pale glare of the streetlight, already glazed with a thin layer of frost. The bite of it makes the skin of his face sting.

* * *

This new phase in her life is a good thing. She has decided this at some point, on a random day, a Tuesday. She is past non-sensical dating, past commitment issues, past unfulfilled yearnings. She has forgiven Elliot, has forgiven herself, Simon, even her mother. She'll take life as it comes. She won't let the job finish her. It is, she reminds herself, a job. So, she fills her life with other things. She rings up Calvin regularly, although he isn't exactly talkative at the moment. She pairs up with Alex for her exercise routine. She goes to bars. Well, a bar. Hell, she has even been to a girls' softball game and exchanged friendly words with a _defence_ attorney. Who told her that the secret was having other things. Relaxation. She is relaxed. She'll leave caring too much to Amaro and Rollins, the fresh brains, for a while.

After all, counting too much on one thing, on one person, would be…well, bad. She takes a sip of her wine and grabs some bread sticks before settling on the sofa. There is no point in brooding over all this again. She needs to build a network of people. Period. And right now, she really needs her late dinner.

* * *

The door is not locked. It isn't supposed to be anyway, but it surprises him that there is all this trust going around tonight. It's pitch black inside, except for a couple of emergency lights on the ceiling and the soft, dancing lights around the small candles at the very front. The familiar smell of humidity and frankincense puts a weight into the pit of his stomach. It feels right; it's the feeling only an old church like this one can rouse in him, a building that carries in its history the whispers of those asking for shelter. Nowhere else do the story of Christ's sacrifice and the dynamics of sin and redemption feel so real to him. It reminds him of his childhood, of kneeling at the altar and swallowing down his rage.

As he walks down the aisle, the sound of his feet hitting the cold stone floor seems amplified in the empty building. The sparsely illuminated images of torture and death along the high walls could be frightening, but in a way, he is at home here. The candles are flickering, drawing him closer. Each candle represents one memory of a dead person. There are so many here. How many of them died too soon? The surrounding darkness makes them shine more brightly. Yes, this is where he belongs.

* * *

The explosion of a cracker nearly has her dropping her glass. People are celebrating early. Good for them, if slightly annoying. She can't wait to see 2011 go. It has been one hell of a year. She approaches the window, draws back the curtain slightly and takes a look at the frost-glazed street. There is no one out there, absolutely no one except for the cars driving by on the main road. People must be making their way to parties right about now, if they aren't already there. She doesn't mind staying home. It's better than being stuck in some inane conversation with some guy she isn't interested in. In any case, tonight is one of those "high risk" nights where the precinct gets more calls than usual. There's too much alcohol involved, too much carelessness and lowered inhibitions. She expects to return to a huge workload in a couple of days.

They are celebrating the end of one more year. It's a good thing, and still, she can't shake the feeling that something is off, that something irreversible is happening here. This year was full of "lasts" and now, just losing the year itself makes her restless. She wishes it had passed already. Then she wouldn't have to "review" all the things ending with the year in her mind, could stop being sentimental and focus on other matters. Clinging to things, recounting them so they won't get lost as if it's the last opportunity to ever do so, is pointless.

* * *

He kneels down in the front pew. These wooden benches never get any more comfortable, and his knees are already complaining. But he needs a moment. There is something he wants to say, something he needs to ask, but it's just beyond his reach. He prays, as he always does, The Lord's Prayer. "Our Father" are the words and the idea he likes best, an idea meant to be comforting. And yes, he does wish for his trespasses to be forgiven. Next, he gives thanks for his life, his health, his children's health and happiness, his wife, their life together this past year. He prays for each of his children individually, asking that they be protected, knowing that they face the same risks as everyone else, knowing that God seems to act completely arbitrary in who he protects, but still praying that his kids are the exception, that they be spared, because that would be enough. He confesses his doubt, his lack of understanding for this injustice, but he can't quite get himself to ask for forgiveness for this doubt. It is what it is.

At this point, there is nothing left to say. And still, he hasn't said it yet, the thing he isn't able to "run off" tonight. It is neither a question nor a request. "Please" is the only word that comes to mind. It's a yearning tucked away in a box he doesn't want to open. An uncertainty that weighs, laden with guilt.

* * *

She wants to call him, but she isn't going to start this again. Picking up the phone, setting down the phone, dialing, erasing. They've talked, they've settled that and closed that chapter amicably. It's yesterday's game. It would hurt more, in the long run. It would be bad for both of them, but for her the most. Yes, a lot of time has passed, but that would only make it worse. Things have returned to normal, and phoning him would make her miss him. She won't go into that.

Then again, the ball is in her court because of the stupid card. The only one she gets each year, not counting the one from Cragen, which he pretty much sends to the entire department. She hadn't counted on it this year, but no, he had to go and send one and throw her off. It wasn't like it was a profound one. It was your basic Wal Mart "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year" with only "Happy new year. All the best for 2012. -El" scribbled inside. Not exactly poetic or indebting. She might suspect Kathy's initiative behind the Christmas card and some awkward need to send it out of politeness, except for the trees. The card depicts a snowy forest by night and she recalls telling him, during some late boring shift, of her dislike for the Santa Clause story and all that Christmas merchandise, but her liking for winter and snow. To this day, he has never given her a Santa card. The thought makes her smile. It's the kind of thing only he would know. Was.

* * *

_I need to know. I need certainty. _But as odd as this change feels as reality is starting to settle around him, isn't he secretly relieved? Just a little? It's over. His time has been served and the debt to society has been more than paid. Has it? He is done. He has further duties now which, he vows, he will fulfil. _I will do my best._ He should be satisfied with all the things he has in his life. That is the best thing he can do now, really, despite the girl who was lost because of his gun shot, the girl who was failed. _I'm sorry._ He has prayed for her, many times over even though it won't do much good now. He can't keep going over every case, every other person, every other unresolved question and choice he has made in his life. He will lose his mind if he does. _I'm sorry._ He needs to stop looking back, and yet that feels like a betrayal, too. _I'm sorry._

He is looking for security here, within these walls, although he knows he should be able to find God anywhere. But sometimes, he can't. Maybe this, too, will get easier now, or maybe the need for it has just lessened. Yearnings dull with time. There will be no more double life, no more conflicts of loyalty. It is easier this way. And still, part of him wants to sink even deeper into the dark pit he has abandoned. To drown in all the sorrow with her. Or just sit in the car with her for an afternoon, one afternoon only, sipping coffee in comfortable silence. _Forgive me. And please watch over her, too. _He has chosen light.

* * *

She takes another sip of wine to dull the ache. "Was" is the operative word. She will look forward. And back, too, but not in regret. She will not look back in anger.

* * *

He kneels in silence for a moment. As usual, no answer comes.


	2. The Children

It's as if she is seeing them for the first time with her own eyes. That's the beauty of having a child, experiencing regular things with renewed excitement. "Look at that, huh? Look!" Noah's eyes widen as they follow the glossy, floating balls of water and soap that drift into the warm summer air, the light reflecting off their surface in pretty shades. He startles slightly as the first bubble pops, unsure what to think of this odd business, but squeals excitedly when the little girl blows and more bubbles make their appearance. "Wow, look! More bubbles" she exclaims again, not caring how ridiculous she must sound. Noah giggles and starts to struggle against her hands, bouncing slightly in her lap. It's as if he's watching a miracle, and his enthusiasm is beginning to rub off on her. The bubbles pop and again, the most adorable expression of surprise comes to his face. He glances at the little girl in suspicion, that strange magical bubble maker, then looks at his mom, is reassured by her smile, and forgets all about the bubbles. Out of sight, out of mind. She turns him around, making him "stand" on her thighs while holding him, and kisses his cheek.

* * *

Bubbles. That is the gift his son, his grown, elementary school age child of a son who requires privacy in the bathroom, has left behind for him. Sometimes, he wonders where the kid got his personality from. He has never met a little boy –or girl, for that matter- who loves taking baths as much as he does. None of his other kids were ever this way, but then again, as Kathy keeps telling him, he was never around as much to see it with any of the older ones. Still, Eli has wreaked the sort of havoc in the bathroom that was once worthy of Kathleen, leaving behind puddles of water, a bottle of shampoo on the floor, a semi-steamy mirror that he has drawn something on, and a wet towel all bunched up on top of the toilet lid where it will never dry. Of course, he has forgotten to turn on the fan to get the steam out, and one look at the half-empty bottle of bubble bath explains the small peaks of foam that still remain in the corner where the bathtub apparently overflowed. What was he trying to do, flood the entire house? His first instinct is to call "Ka-a-th-y-y", but she would bite his head off for it, and rightly so. His second instinct is to call the little Mr. Messy he fathered and play the tough dad card. Maybe he will. Probably not. He is going soft in his old age. "Eli…!"

* * *

Mess is everywhere these days and by now, she has stopped even trying to get on top of it. At the beginning, the day to day fight against it bothered her, a struggle of control between her and fate, but at some point, caring about dirty diapers and stains on expensive shirts became a futile exercise in self-torture. She is used to coming home to a clean apartment –clean, because underused- ordering take-out, opening a bottle of wine. Not anymore. Mess isn't only a physical state of being, it's the disintegration of order and routine, of established systems and ways of doing things. Nowadays, it's all about planning, but she doesn't have her routine down yet and at the moment, she's constantly juggling, simply reacting to things without her precious structure. It's a change, being responsible for another person besides herself; if she messes up now, it could hurt a child. She's still in the dark about how on earth she's going to do this. It's a different kind of mess from before though, a kind that requires her constant attention and presence in the moment, not like the kind of mess of the past year that had her drifting through life, surviving, trying all sorts of new things but never sticking with one for too long, fighting, running from memories, thinking, thinking, thinking. There is no time for that now. She has to keep herself together, for him.

* * *

He needs to stop thinking. His job suits him, it fits his skills, the routine is fine, the hours are good, the pay is excellent. When Lizzie came home from college last week, she remarked that he seemed "less angry than before", more "chilled", whatever that term was supposed to mean. He should be grateful to have this second career chance after already having one full run behind him. But while he lived that run to the fullest with his first job, bled for it in a way that probably wasn't healthy, in retrospect, lived every second of it, he finds that here is very little blood left in him to pump into this second run. It's not that he's all burned out -"burn-out", there's a term that's nothing but bogus psycho babble- his heart just isn't in it. He often goes through the week completely missing it, to the point where, when it's Friday night and someone asks him how work has been, he can't always remember what he's been doing. He sits at his desk, analyzing CCTV footage, looking at report after report, holding strategy meetings. He tells himself that he is doing something good here, that private companies deserve a safe working environment, too, but no matter how much he pretends to be the hero in someone's story here, he's really just a middle-aged ex-cop advising the big guys on how to keep their property safe. If he does his job badly, yes, security leaks may happen, but in all likelihood, the world wouldn't end because of it. It's not like it used to be. It should be better, but he's not sure that it is. It's just different. He can imagine what she would say about it, if she saw him today: "Private security consultant? Well, there's a fancy term for selling out." She wouldn't say it spitefully, though. Why does he torment himself by even thinking about what she would say?

* * *

She needs to stop torturing herself. She gets through most days okay now, and when she keeps busy, when Noah is awake and she's awake and things go as planned, she is fine, even happy. She looks at him, his innocence, sees his little hands reaching out for her, notices how he stops crying when he hears her voice as she approaches, and what she feels is pure love and gratitude. She never thought she could love anyone so much, so unconditionally. She is grateful in those hours of sunshine and warmth, endlessly thankful for this chance for both of them, despite all the tragedy in their lives, despite the death of his mother she wished she could have prevented, despite the guilt and sadness and bad starts. She realizes that this would never have happened if it hadn't been for a strange combination of circumstances, for an unorthodox judge and her being called to this case and Ellie showing up, and sometimes, it feels like it's _too many_ coincidences. She doesn't believe in fate, but she is stunned at how it happened. How life happens. But then she is alone with him, always alone with him, and he gets a tummy ache or is simply cranky, and she can't help him, can't find the patience and well of calm in herself to soothe him, as if she is lacking some sort of core maternal instincts that she supposes_ real_ mothers get through this whole pregnancy deal and hormonal changes and all that stuff she never paid much attention to. And she knows it's bullshit, in her rational moments, she fully realizes that there are plenty of bad biological parents, that the first months of life aren't everything and a lot is still out in the open, but still, she can't help feeling that she is somehow "less than", or not the real deal. He deserves better. She doesn't bake cookies and knit socks. Except she can't tell anyone that, or confide that she's afraid, or that she doesn't always know what he wants from her, because then they might take him away from her. They might be proven right.

* * *

Kathleen does yoga now, as if to prove that she's this whole new person. He tries to be supportive and listens to her ramblings on ashtangas and philosophical underpinnings and "no, Dad, it's _not _just stretching". He's been supportive Dad for the past fifteen minutes. Can he please get more coffee here, right this minute? He is glancing around the café impatiently, watching those young people in really ugly, layered clothes who wear hats in June sipping their five Dollar fair-trade coffee, and once again, it's as if he has stopped understanding the world. He wonders why, if yoga is all about returning the mind to "original silence", all Kathleen is doing is talking about it non-stop. He tells her he's glad she's found something that makes her happy, and she tells him, with the most serene expression, that life isn't about being happy all the time. He supposes she is right about that, and the way she says it, so mature and serious, makes him yearn for the girl who snuck out of the house after midnight to dance in the snow. But only a little. He doesn't love this idea of her running off to join the Peace Corps, not when she should be building a career, settling down, figuring out her life. He wonders just how much of it may be a slight defiance of his own previous military engagement. She says she's ready, that she is finished with therapy, but will continue taking her meds, that she has talked it over with her doctor, that she has been working up to this for a long, long time, gathering her required volunteer hours. She says they wouldn't have accepted her if they thought she weren't up for the job, she tells him not to worry, that it will be a good experience for her, enriching. She tells him she has money saved up and even already got her vaccinations, including yellow fever, as if it's supposed to reassure him that his daughter is travelling to a place where there is yellow fever. He wants to keep her close. But this isn't about what he wants.

* * *

She still wants things. She should be content, so utterly overwhelmed by gratitude and happy to be alive and well and to get what she wanted, but she still wants more. Dreaming has never been of much use to her, and she has only learned very late to allow it. And once she allowed it, she made certain decisions – decisions about her job, decisions about her privacy, decisions about surviving after Lewis, decisions about moving, decisions about ending what could have been a loving, long-term relationship. She might well have had the real deal in an amicable, supportive boyfriend, no big Romeo and Juliet romance perhaps (but Romeo and Juliet died in the end), but someone to come home to, a life of companionship with someone who got what she did for a living. But she will not second guess that now, because she made a hard decision based on the dream of more. Well, now she has more, now she has what she wanted. And she still wants more. She wants to be a good mother most of all, to have a permanent home, to not have all that taken away again. A part of her also wants those boring, traditional things, components of the life she never thought she would lead, like a man at her side she can share things with, although she's not sure exactly how much sharing she's capable of. She wants someone to laugh with her, someone to be there when Noah says his first words or takes his first steps. She isn't ready for that right now, doesn't have the energy or the nerve for it, she doesn't even look at men that way right now…but someday, maybe, someday, she will be. Someday, she will let someone in again. If it's not too late. She will love again.

* * *

Love. It's a complicated business. He is sitting in his car, watching the windows steam up as the rain trickles down the windshield. He has been sitting here for five minutes straight, watching the drops of water. Sitting here reminds him of nights spent on patrol as a uni, but mostly, of staking out with her waiting for a suspect, not even needing to talk but sitting in comfortable silence. Love should lead him to want to drive home, but he finds himself hanging back. Kathy joked the other day that he is almost working more now during his retirement than he was for the NYPD, but it was only half a joke and half a reproach, creating a confusing double bind in front of their son that he hopes was way over his head. She is right. He often finds excuses to stay late, and he doesn't even know why. He doesn't love his job as he does Kathy – and of course he loves Kathy, how could he not, after their history together. They have been together for so long he can't imagine his life without her. He just can't see her all the time, and sometimes, going out for a drink with the guys is not enough. Some nights, he gets the inexplicable urge to reminisce, to retreat to his own, private world that he lost three years ago. He's not sure what exactly he has lost, but it's gone, irretrievable, irreplaceable. He doesn't grieve for it anymore. It's more like a locked room at the back of his mind that he can visit at any time, where he can study objects and situations and relive conversations.

* * *

Noah is already asleep as she gets home, so the sitter tells her. She dismisses Guadalupe with a thank you and extra cash for staying longer, and tries to conceal her disappointment from her. Another woman put her son to bed tonight, perhaps reading him a story or singing him a lullaby. It's one more night she has missed, one more night where he closed his eyes without seeing her. She sneaks into his room quietly, careful not to wake him, and bends over the crib, watching him sleep, his hands balled into little fists, his legs kicking slightly, eyes moving behind the closed lids. He is dreaming. She will not disrupt that. Off in his own world, Noah doesn't know about the disappearing witnesses that are the cause of her long days at work, those girls who haunt her, who are so vital to finding his mother's killers. One day, if she's lucky, if he gets to stay with her, she will have to explain all this to him, and she is dreading that day. What will she tell him? "Mom gave you up to a crazy couple who made child porn because she was addicted to drugs, then we got you out of there and arrested the couple, but your mom didn't come to claim you back, we only found her by chance when we arrested her for participating in a rape, then we tried to get her help but she was brutally murdered. But it's okay, because I took you in?" And she always thought her own parentage was messed up… She takes one last look at the sleeping baby, yearning to place a kiss on his head but not daring to do so, then heads over to the kitchen. She desperately wants to pour herself a glass of wine, and another glass, and another glass, until she's comfortably warm and numb, but she will not become a mother like her own. She will not give in.

* * *

He simply can't give into it or go through with it, depending on the point of view. He has dialed her number a million times, even driven by her old apartment where he knows she doesn't live anymore, although he doesn't know where she lives now, as it is a well-kept secret. He has spied on her as much as he dares, asking about her at the department. It started after he saw her face on TV, that fateful day when his world shattered and Kathy looked at him in horror, unable to tell him but showing him the news, then handing him the phone as soon as he was physically capable of making a phone call. He has never called _her_, though. How could he have? What could he have said to her after two years? "I'm sorry you got abducted, tortured for days and who knows what else, so sorry you nearly got killed, that really sucks. Hey, let's be friends again?" And maybe he is a coward as well. He is afraid of what it's done to her, of the different person she will be now. He saw her TV confession, later, saw her looking incredibly strong, and again, he nearly called her. And then she went through it again, and he nearly lost her for good, and he simply can't let himself think about what that bastard did to her. Of course it's utterly selfish. She must hate him. Perhaps she has stopped caring and never expected anything more from him, but somewhere at the back of his mind, he knows she hasn't. If only she had reached out to him. If only he weren't scared shitless.

* * *

Sometimes, she lets herself play the "what if" game in her mind after all. What if Brian had answered her question differently? What if she had done this at a younger age? What if Lewis had never happened? Would she still be where she is today? She picks them off one by one like petals off a giant daisy. She never used to question so much. But the answers are all the same, they all lead to where she is right now, right at this moment in time, cradling Noah in her lap and wondering why feeding has to be such a messy affair, with half of the substance dribbling out of his mouth. He doesn't have any physical issues or motor control problems, it's just that the little boy actually seems to like spitting things out, much to her dismay. In moments like that, she sometimes randomly thinks of Elliot, smiling to herself and wondering what he would have to say about all this. She imagines telling him about her day-to-day realizations and how he would come up with some sort of superior reply that showcases his expertise in the department, although in all reality, it was probably Kathy's clothes that were covered in stains. And then he would probably act all judgemental of old motherhood, of single motherhood… She shakes the thought. It's a silly idea, born out of a yearning for familiarity.

* * *

These streets, these cars, these people all look the same to him. And yet nothing ever stays the same. Nothing at all. He pulls up into the driveway, and Eli runs over from the lawn where he's been playing, shouting "Dad! Dad! Come look at my tipi!" He smiles, letting his son engage him for the moment. Eli, thoughtful as he is, turns around to the house and shouts "Mom! Dad's home!".

* * *

She has decided to hit the park with Noah on her day off, sitting on a blanket spread out on the Great Lawn, taking advantage of the shade of a tree. Noah is on the verge of rolling over, and she is encouraging him, well, encouraging and being slightly mean by putting his toys just out of reach. But he persists and persists, and she reacts with as much enthusiasm as if he were working on winning the Nobel Prize, actually rolling around with him a little. Eventually, they land on the grass and he feels it and immediately tries to taste it. When she takes a gigantic clump of earth from him just in time, he sticks his foot into his mouth instead, entirely content. She tickles the bottom of his other foot and he squeals. Today, at least, there is no darkness. Today, there is only light.


	3. A Good Year

They have just finished dinner. "They" is everyone holidays tend to signify a depressing kind of loneliness for, although she may be projecting here. Nick and Fin actually came over, while Amanda gave her excuses and cited "other plans", which she can only hope involve a Gamblers Anonymous meeting, although it's none of her business. She has invited them over for New Year's Eve, playing something in between responsible boss, friend and everyone's mother. Nick in particular seemed grateful for the invitation, and she is relieved he decided to come over. Things have shifted at work; they don't talk as much as she used to, and she will not lose track of another partner. Ex-partner. Subordinate. Whatever. When she called him up on Christmas Eve, he told her in an eerie, emotionless voice that Maria took Zara skiing and will only let him see her in the new year. He has refused to discuss this over dinner today, and she has decided to drop the subject matter. It fits with their quiet understanding that some things are better left unsaid.

The two men have been sweet, each bringing something for dinner, each asking how she's doing with the holidays "and everything", playing with Noah and helping her clear the dishes. Shop talk has been kept to a minimum today. Noah has been excited about their presence, the noise and activity at the apartment, and has enthusiastically been knocking things off the table in an effort to see who will pick them up first, and giggling at the face Fin makes when he does it. She has never pictured Fin of all people as a baby person, and is moved by his endless patience for begrudgingly repeating the same actions over and over again. It's way past the kid's bedtime, but that doesn't matter right now, not tonight. It's good to have that, to give him that – a life with other adults in it.

* * *

They have just finished skyping with Kathleen in Garoua. Five hours of time difference mean that it's already 2015 there and, while Kathleen has been light-hearted, joking about her call from the future, he can see that she has lost weight and that she looks strained, although she insists that it's just the heat and physical exertion. Granted, it was hard to tell over a Skype call that kept being interrupted by transmission delays, freezing screens and echoes, but still, he is concerned that she was in an internet café on her own after midnight ("But Dad, I'm not on my own, people here are talking to relatives all over the world right now. I only have ten minutes left on this computer.") Between Kathy's and his anxious enquiries into her safety and well-being, Lizzie's battery of questions and everyone else trying to get a word in, he hasn't exactly learned much information about her life in Africa, except that her dormant school French is finally getting better and the assignment keeps her busy.

He doesn't know a thing about Cameroon other than what the Wikipedia entry told him, and the thing that stuck out from that is that there is a shortage of doctors and, from what Kathleen's job there tells him, a shortage of water. It's unsettling how his daughter is growing more and more foreign to him, how her world is so different from his that it leaves them with little to talk about. For the first few weeks after her arrival, Kathleen kept up an online blog, but the lack of internet availability and other activities have made her stop. In his mind, he regularly plays out horror scenarios that tend to involve ebola, malaria, dehydration and her being abducted by extremists ("That happened in Nigeria, Dad, don't be so racist.") He never thought he would spend so much time looking up travel advice from the State Department and tracking the WHO's website. Lizzie's talk of gap years and film projects in developing countries, the way she admires what her big sister is doing, isn't helping matters. But the less he wants her to go off somewhere, the more she wants to do it. You'd think she would be over that need to prove herself by now.

* * *

She is observing Nick with Noah as he lets him push his chair around the room while patiently moving along beside him, ready to stop him from bumping into any objects that might not withstand the rough contact. For a little boy who's not really steady on his feet yet, he can put a lot of strength and insistence into crashing things. She's glad she doesn't own a glass table. "You're stuck there, buddy! Here, let's turn you around." It's a sweet sight, but it breaks her heart a little for Nick. She is beginning to understand what being separated from his daughter must mean for him. She has watched this failed marriage business unravel him bit by bit. It doesn't excuse anything he's done, but it certainly isn't helping. The footing is gone. But for now, he looks okay, distracted.

"Look at you, you're walking!" she exclaims proudly, crouching down with her arms outstretched.

For a split second there, Noah, beaming at her, almost lets go of the chair, but then he clings to it, tries to pull it with him and gets frustrated when he fails at it. He's about to sit back down on the floor and choose an easier way of moving, when Nick takes his hands and slowly leads him over to her. "Mama!"

Her heart leaps with indescribable joy and she finally picks him up when they reach her, lifting him up above her head. "Good job, Noah!"

* * *

Grandpa. Gramps. Grandpa Elliot. Grandpa Stabler. No, they all sound old. Maybe something more modern, like G-Daddy. No, most definitely not. Ridiculous names only make it weirder. They don't change the core of it, the thing that makes him such an asshole: The fact that he can't be happy about his eldest daughter's pregnancy, not yet anyway. He hopes that will change once there is an actual baby, a little girl or boy to raise. Maureen is happy about it, her husband is happy about it, Kathy is happy about it, Eli is over the moon and keeps going on about how he'll be called "Uncle Elliot" and will teach little Scooby everything he knows, ignoring all reminders that he could be getting a niece and that it's very unlikely any kid in this family would actually be called Scooby. They all expect him to join in their joy, and of course he has smiled and congratulated them, and of course he knows this isn't all about him, or about him at all…but a grandfather? Really? What's next, dentures? He has a seven-year-old kid of his own who has been bothering them about wanting a little brother, even though he has been told a million times that there is just no way that is going to happen. Kathy tells him he just can't face the fact that they're getting older, and maybe she's right about that, although he obviously can't admit that to her face. He is not a grandpa. He doesn't walk with a cane, snuff tobacco or do crossword puzzles. Maybe he should, to keep his mind fit. Tomorrow, he will go out and buy a newspaper.

But then again, there will be a baby, just a new little girl or boy, Maureen will be a mom, and a great one at that. It is this idea that softens him, the memories of the smell of baby bath and baby poop and baby feet, and Maureen so tiny and now grown up and happy, the continuity in all of it and the idea of time itself. He will be an actual grandpa, still physically able, and he has more time now than ever before. This child will grow up surrounded and loved and, yes, possibly a little spoiled.

* * *

They are sitting in silence after Fin has left. It's not an uncomfortable sort of silence, just the tired quiet that comes with being all talked out, but content with the company either way. Nick has come up with some excuse about how he'll have no chance of getting home in this traffic before midnight anyway, and maybe he really doesn't, or maybe he simply doesn't want to start into the new year all alone. She accepts his reasoning with a plain nod, because any assurances that he's welcome to stay as long as he wants would probably lead to more justifications and discomfort on his part. And what is the point of a New Year's Party if everyone leaves at 10pm? He sits very upright, his hands flat on his thighs, looking straight ahead, the stark opposite of her slumped posture with one leg tucked under her body, ready to doze off. She is too used at taking any chance at sleep she can get, too used to getting up overtired after a long night and having a melt-down because she's running late for work, the sitter isn't here yet and Noah just decided to take a nice dump in her bed.

Seriously, can Nick never just relax? He's stayed here before, and once you have seen someone's hair in your shower drain, certain boundaries have been broken. It's not like she's going to bite his head off or force him to talk about Maria. Or maybe he wants to do just that. She can't always tell with him.

"So you actually have the rest of the week off, huh?" he asks after a while, although they have already discussed it over dinner.

"Yes. Noah time for a change."

"That's good, really good."

"Yeah, well, I hope the precinct still stands when I get back. Look after it for me, will you?"

He gives a slight nod while still looking ahead, clearly chewing on something. She wishes he wouldn't do this, although he has no other choice. What comes next is inevitable. "Liv…I was wondering…"

She sighs and holds up her hand to stop him, wanting to spare him the begging act. "I want you to have a different role again, Nick. Just not yet."

"I know it sucks that I'm asking you like this, at your party, I wasn't planning to-"

"Yeah, it kind of does, but that's not the reason for my answer." Sometimes, she hates being the one to make these decisions. Making them where it concerns her partner seems wrong, unethical, like a case she would gladly recuse herself from. But she can't, because that would make her look weak, and she can't afford to look weak. Not after everything. She has to work ten times as hard to prove herself.

"What's it going to take?"

She runs one hand through her hair, searching for arguments. "I just need to know that you can do it, that I can count on you-"

"-you can, you know that-"

"-that you're not going to spring this kind of thing on everyone again. It's not fair on everyone else to pretend that nothing happened." So she is doing this out of some kind of noble concern for everyone? _Great job at fooling yourself, Sergeant Benson_. She looks at him, at his hurt expression, the anger that boils so close to the surface, and she can't entirely trust him anymore, not like she used to. She can trust him as a partner to have her back, always, it's not about that, but she can't trust him to be the straight up professional that _she_ needs him to be. And these days, she uses her favours sparingly. It's the ultimate act of selfishness, of putting herself, her kid and her job before him. She is failing her partner.

* * *

They are sitting together on the sofa, alone in a house where everyone else has long since left for more exciting parties than New Year's at their parents'. Eli is the only one who has stayed at home, the only one who remains theirs for a little while longer, but despite his resolution of staying up to see the fireworks, he has dozed off on the sofa, one leg dangling off of it, the other tangled in the blanket Kathy has spread out over him. The realization hits him that this is what it's going to be like one day, once Eli gains more and more independence. It's just going to be him and Kathy, in a house all by themselves. Just him and Kathy forever, until one day, it will be either him or Kathy, alone. The thought of that forever is intimidating. This silence is something they are not used to in a house that was always filled with laughing, chatting, fighting kids. Is this what remains at the end of the day?

Kathy is leaning against him, his arm up on the back of the sofa behind her in their usual position, and they don't talk, they are beyond talking. He has scooted down on the couch, resting his feet on the coffee table, while she is facing sideways with her back to him, her legs up on the seat. They are drawn in by the TV, watching the old black and white reruns of _Dinner for One_ in an endless loop while eating popcorn. He has no idea why, but for some reason, Kathy is crazy about this comedy in a single act, and over the years, it has grown on him at least to the extent that he's used to it, that it wouldn't be New Year's Eve without it. James trips over the tiger head, and although they both know it's coming, although they have seen it a hundred times and he is sick of the silly facial expressions and the drunken stupor, they laugh every single time. It's pretty damn depressing when you think about it, an old woman having dinner with her imaginary dead friends, if you don't count the butler getting lucky, but God, it's funny. "Cheerio, Miss Sophie!" he exclaims as Sir Toby.

He watches Kathy as she chews on some of her fat-free popcorn. Is this it, the sum of their shared experiences? If it is, it's not exactly Shakespeare. She nudges him as he nearly misses his cue. "The same procedure as last year, Miss Sophie?"

"The same procedure as every year, James."

* * *

She thinks of all the other New Year's Eves, the ghosts of Christmas past, ghosts of Christmas present, and ghosts of Christmases yet to come. They couldn't be more different. Last year, she was a nervous wreck, jumping at every fire cracker, resentful at the prospect of yet another year, mortified by the trial and just generally pissed off at the world - and, naturally, taking it out on whoever got in her way. All that it took for her to snap was Brian's question "are you sure?" at her insistence that she would work the dreaded New Year's Eve shift that no one wanted to take. Cragen sending her home mid-afternoon after showering her in paper work to keep her off the streets wasn't exactly helping matters. She was sick of him, sick of Nick following her around, sick of Amanda watching her then quickly looking away when she noticed and never saying a thing, sick of Lindstrom's uncomfortable questions and assurances, and most of all, sick of Brian, Brian being there when she needed time alone to let go for just a minute, Brian not being there at night when she got home late and it took her that eternal moment to work up the courage to unlock the apartment door, Brian being nice, Brian being worried, Brian being annoyed with her, Brian talking. New Year's Eve was the one day where she wanted everyone to just fuck off.

The year before was a different story altogether. She remembered thinking "this is it", that she was happy and wanted to stay right here, right there, forever. It wasn't a "happy ending" sort of finality, but as close as she could get, a momentary comfort, or maybe that was simply how she chose to remember it. If she had known then what the coming year would hold in store for her, she might have ended it right there. But the Bahamas were a different chapter from everything else, a deceptive break from reality, and over time, they have come to symbolize everything that she could never get back after Lewis. The memory of that holiday away, of dancing Salsa around people who she would never see again in her life, of beaches and swimming and making fun of Brian's graying body hair, are the thing that, in her mind, is the "old Olivia", the one who wasn't damaged. It's life as it could have been with just her regular issues, not the added post-Lewis ones, and the relationship she might have had with Brian.

She decides to drop these thoughts, and if only it were as easy as making that choice, because there is no point in brooding. She could wipe her hard drive clean and reboot, and the continuity would be lost, the year after year of spending New Year's Eve in front of the TV trying not to dwell on things, years that are starting to blend and blur. She could erase Lewis' voice from her head and wouldn't get nauseous at the smell of cigarettes. But this year? This year feels entirely different, and she's had no time to dwell on that, really, or to make room for that new start. It's just sort of happened.

She is alive and present, and it feels like she has a future, a something yet to come. This next year will be good, and ever so slowly, the voice in her head that screams "this isn't you, you can't do this, this is a fantasy that can't come true, it's going to break any second now" is beginning to shut up. From time to time.

* * *

Kathy has curled up into his side, her head almost resting on his chest, and he's not entirely sure where this recent cuddly side comes from, but sure, he'll take it. She is warm and soft to the touch in her new cashmere sweater that Lizzie and Richard got her for Christmas, which she almost got angry about because it was probably expensive and she thinks it's a waste of money, but secretly loves. Personally, he's pretty sure Lizzie picked it out, judging from the lecture that went along with it about having something nice "just for yourself", and her brother probably chipped in later as usual once it turned out that he forgot to buy something for his old parents ("…but you're good at stuff like that, Lizzie, I'll pay you back later"). Every year, they agree not to give each other material presents, but instead just spend time together and appreciate the true meaning of the holidays…and then someone always ends up walking past a cute window display, someone else desperately needs cash, someone's phone just broke and before you know it, everyone ends up in a gift wrapping and last minute buying frenzy the day before Christmas. And anyway, money is less tight than it used to be. Might as well enjoy it.

"This program is disappointing" Kathy comments, picking up the remote and turning down the volume on the live transmission from Time's Square. It does seem a bit ridiculous to watch a live program from their own city on TV.

"Hmm" he hums non-commitedly.

"Whatever happened to the good old movies they used to show on New Year's Eve, the Humphrey Bogarts and Cary Grants."

Personally, he is just fine if he doesn't have to see "It's a Wonderful Life" for the tenth nauseating time. He draws her closer, draping his arm across her. "I can put some hair gel on if you're into that kind of thing."

"You'd need to grow some hair first."

* * *

"So how's parenthood?"

"Foster parenthood" she corrects him, forever reminding herself that this could be temporary, because she could lose it all again so easily. "Do you have an easier question?"

"No." He takes a sip of his beer, a small sip, but it's unusual to see him drinking at all.

"It's different."

"Different how?"

She traces the unidentifiable dark stain on the formerly pristine arm rest of the couch with her finger. "It was something I always wanted, but in the sense that…like you want something you know you're never going to get. Or that you could only ever have if things were _right_, and you know they're never going to be right. Like 'oh, I wish, if only I could…'. I wasn't really expecting it, you know?"

He is listening attentively, and she's glad he doesn't immediately try to explain her own thoughts to her, or tell her that he can relate, because he probably can't. Nick knows her, probably more than she'd like, and somehow, that makes it safe to tell him all this. She doesn't have to be super mom in front of him. He's the kid of the squad, who needs people to watch his back himself.

"And now it's not just me anymore, there's Noah to consider. He needs me, so I can't…" Her throat feels constricted at this. She can't put into words what she can't do. "He comes first. And I can't imagine things any different now, because he's here and he's something that's all good. And I don't know how…" She quickly brushes her cheek at this, not wanting to burst into tears in front of her past, present and future colleague.

Nick averts his gaze, giving her a moment to compose herself. She loves that about him. "So are things, you know, _right_? Now, I mean?" he asks tensely.

"Yes" she whispers without hesitation, brushing aside all considerations of "as right as they're ever going to be", all limitations like "more or less". Because she doesn't know what "right" is, can't remember what "all right" feels like or if she has any notion of what "all right" should be like, but this feels "better than…". "Better than…" will be her "right" for now. She isn't trying to survive, or rescue present or past versions of herself, although she may well be trying to be "better than" someone, the best mom on the planet, which, it turns out, is hard.

"Good" Nick replies simply, like that one "yes" clarifies absolutely everything. He sounds relieved. She sure as hell hopes he doesn't feel a need to add something about how she's a great mom or she's recovered well or she looks _right_ to him. He knows better than that by now, though. That's not Nick she's thinking of. And just then, he oversteps it after all by asking whether she still keeps in touch with Cassidy.

"Uh, no, not really."

Her reaction must have been quite telling, because he adds "just asking", like it wasn't perfectly clear whether he was asking her a simple question or proclaiming a romantic interest in Brian and trying to find out whether he could date him now.

"It's fine."

"Why not?"

"Nick" she groans. "Exes, you know how it is." She really shouldn't need to spell this out for him.

"But you guys were on good terms."

"It would be too hard. You can't be friends with someone after…after all that happened." Because forever the darkness, the guilt, the loss. "We've moved on."

"Fair enough" he replies, and even though Nick isn't a hopeful softie, she feels like she has just crushed something for him, or fed into his own black hole even more.

"He called me on Christmas Eve" she explains for his benefit, "just checking in. And it's all good." She tries to smooth the inevitable wrinkles out of her dress pants, but fails. It's definitely pyjama time. "Maybe you and Maria can-"

"Maybe" he shuts her down, not sounding convinced at all.

* * *

He is watching the colourful, twelve thousand pound ball drop slowly on TV with mild interest. He has seen it too many times before, but there is something reassuring to this ritual. Kathy has dozed off, her head rolling over on his shoulder, which is beginning to ache. He knows better than to wake her up, because being woken up while half asleep on the couch is one of few things which turns Kathy into, well, an absolute hell to be around. So does not being woken up when she is missing out on something important. It's really a coin toss at this point. Oh, of course, there goes the annual make-out session on TV. It's ridiculous. _Happy new year, suckers. Happy new year, sleeping wife and sleeping kid. Happy new year, other kids, wherever you are. Happy new year, unborn grandchild, Scooby or not. Happy new year, world. Happy new year, Liv. _

* * *

Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…three…two…one…goodbye, 2014. It is a farewell to turmoil, to Lewis, to Ellie Porter, to coping or barely coping at work and at home. It represents the start of something new, although that start began a few months ago. She doesn't believe in symbols like that, usually. Except when she does, wearing special necklaces and changing her hair. What she wants to do right now, most of all, is to wake Noah up and just to be with him. But that would be irresponsible. She doesn't do that sort of thing now.

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you for reading, this is the last part (at least until I change my mind) that has been lying around on my figurative desk for the past three months. Please review and let me know what you think! Love reading each and every comment.


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